


All is Quiet

by CasmusRex



Series: Depraved Kinks with Real Motivations [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Come Eating, Come Shot, Coming Untouched, Daddy Kink, Harry Potter Has a Large Cock, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Parent/Child Incest, Pottercest (Harry Potter), References to Depression, Size Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasmusRex/pseuds/CasmusRex
Summary: Albus Severus Potter knows he isn't right in the head; but, Lord knows, this is the only way he knows how to feel human.
Relationships: Albus Severus Potter/Harry Potter
Series: Depraved Kinks with Real Motivations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944508
Comments: 3
Kudos: 114





	All is Quiet

Albus Severus Potter knew better. He knew, sitting in his dad's closet—form striped from the soft sharp, dim moonlight coming through the slats—that he wasn't acting like a normal child. Normal children didn't lay in bed wide-awake after they had been tucked in and wait for the dull thudding of the upstairs shower. They didn't carefully peel back their bed covers and make swift on tip-toe to their father's bedroom. They didn't, heart thumping, open the rickety closet door and deposit themselves in such a way that their eye could peer easy onto his nightly stage.

For that's what it was: theater. An entertainment for a so easily bored child. Albus could easily recall the feeling, if not the memory, of the playground where children play with such careful abandon. But Albus, painfully shy, always on the margins. Unsure of what to say. Always too late with speech. Chasing unspoken conversations and should-haves in his mind throughout the day. Albus could play-act; but through inability or some quirk of method, there was no emotion in his performance. It was a weakness, he knew, for to have played a role was to inhabit its feelings. He saw it, how the mood of one child spread its way through the playground or the classroom in ways that defied Albus' perception, but made a palpable change in the atmosphere. Chameleon-like, soaking up feelings like a sponge. To Albus, it was this capacity that made one normal and it was the normalcy and casual ease of others that Albus found titillating.

And there was never a person more at ease, more confident in his existence than Albus' father. Had Albus lived or been capable a richer outer life, he might have had an inkling that he was not alone in self-doubt and self-recrimination. He might have known that all living things feel alone and scared and unconnected at times. But Albus could not imagine, some queer bent to his brain that could not accept that his father was human too. He moved with too much purpose, too efficient, too carelessly. To Albus, it seemed as if his father had no mind at all, but merely an expression of a character, proceeding like a marionette through a banal story that had no purpose or end.

This was not the first time Albus had cloistered himself such in the closet, staring with unblinking eyes beyond. But upon the first sneaking step into the bedroom, spying his father's pajamas folded neatly on the bed, he knew this night was different. The thought of achieving his perverse goal at long last sent a spark of excitement through him—the only time now he felt such a thing. His heart beat in his ears, senses faded, numbness mixed with expectant fantasy.

Albus lived for these moments. Albus, always so exhausted with living, wanted to break his life. Make something new. After a short but destructive twelve years, Albus had broken friendships and his social facade. All that was left was irredeemable. Albus was utterly himself. He knew this feeling, when he felt he had grown a pair of seashells on his ears, that it was the rush of destiny: a turning point, an undeniable descent.

And so, when he heard the water shut off in the bathroom next door, Albus stilled his breathing and took up a position of sustainable and taut rigidity. He knew from long practice that people were actually quite unobservant; but he still took care to use these convenient fictions, like a small child believing themselves to be invisible when their eyes are covered.

When he heard the thudding of his dad walking down the hall to his room, Albus took a last, deep breath and lowered his eyes with skilled precision to the slat he knew gave him the most visibility.

Harry Potter, large as life, walked into his bedroom heedlessly with a towel slung low on his hips. Albus took a moment to admire his fine musculature and the dewy sweet reflections of water still beading on his chest and stomach. Something churned low in Albus from the anticipation.

When his dad unfolded and removed the towel, Albus could no longer breathe. The first thing he noticed was the thick length of his dad's cock, which to him had a delicious plumpness that made Albus' mouth water. His dad sat on the edge of the bed, cock and low hanging balls brushing the duvet as he spread his legs wide and consulted the phone that had been laid (and religiously checked by Albus for indecent notifications) on the bed.

Albus shivered, imagining himself laid out upon the floor, spying his dad's winking arsehole as that soft package came to rest on his face. His dad made no effort to move, for which Albus was thankful. It gave him an extended view of that dick that, to his imagination, was plumping even more.

As his dad scrolled through his phone and reached down to tug on his cock, Albus realized that it wasn't his imagination. His dad's cock was thickening, lengthening to extend past his balls, the glistening head slowly becoming unsheathed. Albus could hardly believe his luck; but wished he were some feet forward to reach out with his tongue and lap at the pre-cum that hung, pearlescent on the tip of that magnificent cock.

His dad continued to stroke until his cock stood fat and proud, curving up towards his stomach. Albus wondered what on the phone was so engrossing when his dad could, in a short series of motions, be shoving his cock into a warm and waiting mouth. Albus knew he was demented, wanting to taste his dad's cock; but, palming the responding hardness in his own pajamas, he kept his eyes locked as his dad stroked his cock in long, massaging motions.

Albus watched his dad's balls dance with his strokes, each frisson of pleasure first causing them to jump towards tightness, then to almost sigh with relief as the moment passed. Albus' hand roved his own stiff cock through the soft fabric of his bottoms and watched as his father climbed, inexorably, towards his relief.

Albus wondered what it would feel like, as he had seen on the internet, to shove that big cock in his arse. He imagined, being less developed, the sheer size difference would tear him. But he couldn't find fault in the thought, lost in the fantasy of his dad taking his son. Perhaps teasing him, allowing himself to be caught naked, trying to catch Albus naked, building a plausible exposition to get Albus to desire him. Until, when Albus was frightened or needed advice, growing hard, perhaps tenting athletic shorts or sliding appealingly out the leg of them, goading Albus into taking his first taste. He imagined his dad would shoot so hard and long, dickhole spreading open to bathe Albus in (he thought) delicious, thick cum.

It would be so normal, so bonding. Albus loved the thought of it.

Albus turned his attention to his dad's face as rough, work-hardened hands groped their way to his ultimate climax. Eyes locked on his phone, his dad flashed grimaces and open sighs, panting harder and harder as time passed.

He could tell the moment exactly his father came, eyes fluttering shut, mouth opening. Albus quickly looked down to see his dad's fat cock begin to cum. First, beading white at the tip then arcing far, making wet noises on the carpet as it thudded down. Albus was transfixed as he watched a particularly violent shot leave his dad's cock and fly straight towards the closet door. The string of cum broke apart, spraying wetly through the slats onto Albus' face.

There was no mistaking it, Albus had died in that moment. For the moment his head jerked, recoiling instinctively from the spray, Albus began to spill his load, unbidden into his pants. There were no senses, just the perfection that comes from imperfection in his obsessive anticipations of this moment. He could not have imagined the outcome of this night for, however filthy his fantasies had become, Albus had never considered that he might taste his dad's cum and remain unseen.

His reality returned with astonishing and disappointing quickness. Albus, having bred his process to exacting precision, returned relaxation to his muscles, continued his shallow, silent breathing, and watched as his dad prepared for bed. It would be a long wait now, Albus knew. The pounding of his father's heart would return some wakefulness to him.

Albus steeled himself for the long, quiet denouement to this play before, with ever so much care, departing the stage.


End file.
